showed up for a lecture.
During one lecture I stopped the speaker to ask a question. Not only was I curious, but I also thought that an informed question would show the speaker that I was interested in his subject. Later, Ms. Uno told me that I had been rude.
“When you ask a question you need to be more polite,” she said. “Next time use this phrase first: ‘Mōshiwake gozaimasen ga, chotto kikitai to omotte orimasu.’” She recited this phrase again: “I’m terribly sorry to interrupt, but I was wondering if I could ask you something.” It seemed as familiar to her lips as her own name. Over and over again I repeated her until I had mastered the unfamiliar sounds.
The apartment situation still concerned me. Even though I hadn’t even seen it, I wanted to resist it. I wanted a choice. Corporate authority already determined how to speak, what to wear, and how to behave. When would my opinion count? I was perfectly willing to give up space in order to live closer to the city. As long as I could find a place within the budget I didn’t think it was the company’s business where I lived. I couldn’t move into the Nerima apartment without at least voicing my dissatisfaction, so I had a talk with Ms. Uno and let her know that I was unhappy with the idea of living way out in Nerima. If this was the only choice, I told her I would look for an apartment on my own. She sucked in her breath and looked at me as though I had announced that I had decided to leave the country.
Ms. Uno looked distraught as I explained my feelings, but she agreed to ask her boss about it. She timidly approached a man sitting at a cluster of desks and bowed her head repeatedly as she spoke. The man hardly looked up from what he was doing. Ms. Uno’s shoulders were hunched, her head was down and her hands were clasped. Again I felt disturbed by her subservience. The man barked a few words and Ms. Uno retreated, walking backwards. She sat down at the table and reported his response in English. “You will take the Nerima apartment,” she said, shaking her head. “This is the rule.” Suddenly I noticed that the armholes of my uniform seemed unbearably tight.
It seemed like every time I approached the Personnel Department I left feeling disappointed. One day I asked Ms. Uno how to order my business cards. I had purposely delayed having a card made while I was still in the U.S. because I wanted one with both English and Japanese. She deferred to her boss for an answer. Through her he told me that I wouldn’t be needing a business card. None of the other women working in the executive office had business cards, so I wouldn’t get one either. I protested and tried to argue that surely in the next two years I would be in situations where having a business card would be useful. “What if someone gives me a card and I don’t have anything to give back?” I asked him. He handed me a few generic cards that said “Honda Motor Company, Ltd.” with a blank line underneath where a name could be written. “Use these,” he said.
In the evenings after orientation I returned to the President Hotel located just around the corner from headquarters. After a day of speaking in Japanese the hotel lobby offered the illusion of escape, where guests sat in European-style antique chairs reading the International Herald Tribune and a corps of bell boys dressed like a marching band called me “Madam.”
The only illusion my room offered was that of being in a cell. The room seemed to be a complete unit, as though every piece had been perfectly engineered to fit into place. Although the bed was designed for one person no taller than five and a half feet, it took up two thirds of the room and touched three of the four walls. A small nightstand with a lamp touched the bed and was connected to a narrow desk that took up the fourth wall. On the desk was a mini entertainment center consisting of a compact twelve-inch television, along with a tea set and complimentary tea bag. Next to the desk, a small luggage rack loomed over a pair of beige plastic slippers.
In a small closet-sized room was the unit-bath. It was one continuous piece of putty-colored plastic with a drain in the center of the floor making it look like what you might find on an airplane if the bathrooms included a half-sized tub and shower. Like a one-man band with the drum, cymbals, and banjo all included, the unit was so compact that I could shower, brush my teeth, and flush the toilet all at the same time.
I couldn’t do much in my room except lie on the bed and think. Usually I brewed my complimentary tea bag and worried about work. Besides the uniform and the way women were treated, the apartment situation troubled me. Taking the apartment represented total compliance. I felt the corporate walls forcing me into a mold as though I were trapped inside a Fisher-Price playhouse, in which each piece of furniture fit perfectly into its assigned space and had a single hole for a peg-shaped doll. I didn’t want to be that doll, and the more threatened I felt, the more I wanted to resist.
I decided to call Mr. Yoshida and ask his advice. He didn’t take sides but suggested that I present specific and convincing reasons to the Personnel Department as to why I wanted to live somewhere besides Nerima. He thought I should find an alternative apartment and gave me a general idea of what would be a reasonable rent. Because I was thinking about living near my parents’ friends, he also thought I could make the argument that living there would be safer for me. Mr. Yoshida said he would call the Personnel Department the following week if I wanted him to, but I got the feeling that he thought I should try and work this one out on my own.
I called one of my mother’s Japanese friends. She welcomed me to Japan and asked how everything was going. I told her that things were great and that I would soon be looking for an apartment in her neighborhood. She offered to help me look, and we made a date to meet.
When I hung up I was suddenly overwhelmed with sadness and started to cry. I thought about calling a friend in America, but it seemed so far away and I wasn’t even sure that I could explain my feelings. I didn’t want to admit to anyone, especially to myself, that my dream job was not everything I thought it would be. I felt more alone than ever before. My head ached from crying, so I swallowed a packet of bitter Japanese aspirin powder, took a bath, and ate an entire chocolate bar.
The headquarters building stood on one corner of an intersection in Aoyama, a chic business district in Tokyo where wide streets house boutiques, cafes, and showrooms. The Honda building was less than two years old and was the most modernlooking concrete high-rise on the block.
The front of the building protruded out toward the corner. Each of the sixteen floors had a window running round it that sat back from the smooth, gray stone surface of the building, making it look like a modern bunker. The entryway was clad in austere steel and glass. It was easy to miss the understated sign above the sliding glass doors that said Honda.
On the corners across the street to the right and left of headquarters were similar tall concrete buildings. Kitty-corner from Honda was a conspicuous gap in the landscape. No building or construction existed—only a six-foot high, moss-covered stone wall. In this bustling commercial district, the empty corner stuck out like a gaping hole in a smile.
The stone wall circled an area bigger than the size of a hundred football fields. It belonged to the Imperial Family and housed an immense garden, a guest palace, and lots of wideopen space. Commoners were not permitted inside the walls and were even discouraged from viewing the grounds. When a thirty-two-story building across the street from the garden was built, a special agreement was made to prevent people from looking inside the wall. Not a single window exists on the entire north face of that building.
With help from my mother’s friend, I found an apartment in her neighborhood that was within my budget and only a thirtyfive-minute subway ride away from headquarters. I presented my case to the Personnel Department, emphasizing, as Mr. Yoshida had suggested, that I be allowed to live close to a family friend who would surely be helpful in case of an emergency. Ms. Uno’s boss was unsympathetic but said he would consider my request. I went back to my hotel room that night feeling entirely at his mercy. There was nothing more I could do. I had decided that I wouldn’t bring Mr. Yoshida into the battle; it was clear to me that this was the first of many to come.
